


four times damian had a merry christmas (and one time he thought he ruined it for everyone)

by happyrobins



Series: baby!Damian AU [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Baby!Damian AU, Bat Family, Christmas Fluff, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/pseuds/happyrobins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five Christmases in a baby!Damian AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the year he first saw snow

They were on patrol when the storm began rolling into Gotham. It had blown through Metropolis the day before, leaving four inches of snow in its wake, and Dick had eagerly watched all the weather reports on the news claiming that Gotham would be hit even harder.  
  
Now he was shouting in glee and pumping his fists in the air as the first promised flecks of snow floated down from the dark night sky. The number of snowflakes grew by the second, falling faster and more thickly. The city would be completely covered in white by morning.  
  
Bruce held out his hand, letting a few crystalline flakes land on the palm of his black gauntlet so he could examine them. He was suspicious of snowstorms ever since that near-disaster with the escaped ice villains the year before. But the snow looked natural enough, and Clark had flown into the centre of the storm system and hadn’t found any floating ice fortresses.  
  
“It snowed last year,” Bruce said to Dick. “Why is this any different?”  
  
“It didn’t snow  _much_ , not after that fiasco in November. It was dirty and melted fast.” Dick was grinning as snowflakes gathered in his hair. “I don’t think Damian’s seen real, fluffy snow before! And it’s just in time for Christmas. This is perfect!”  
  
“Hrm.” Bruce frowned and looked down at the street below. He could only think that a blizzard one week before Christmas might mean chaos in the city—power lines could be damaged, water pipes could freeze, poor driving conditions could mean more car accidents…  
  
“Oh, come on, Mr Grinch. Get a little Christmas spirit. It won’t kill you.”  
  
“What’s a Grinch?” Bruce asked, assuming it was another of Dick’s made-up words.  
  
He could tell that Dick was rolling his eyes under the domino mask. “I’m sure we’ve watched the movie at some point.”  
  
“What movie?”  
  
“Fine. We’re watching it tomorrow,” Dick called out as he ran and leapt onto the next rooftop after Bruce, who refused to be delayed any longer. Dick kept talking as they sprinted. “You’ve gotta get into the holiday stuff, B. Christmas is supposed to be a big deal for little kids. It’s supposed to be exciting, and— and  _magical_.”  
  
“Magical,” Bruce repeated flatly, stopping briefly to survey the street below. It was quiet. It had been quiet all night so far. Most Gothamites had stayed home in anticipation of the snowstorm.  
  
“Yeah. You know what I mean. At least… I think you do. Maybe you  _don’t_.” Dick cocked his head to the side and considered his mentor thoughtfully. “We’ll watch that movie tomorrow and then you’ll get the idea.”  
  
Soon there was no one left on the streets. Not willing to brave the storm, everyone had sought shelter inside, including the criminals. Bruce and Dick called it a night earlier than usual. The wind picked up and the snow was falling so heavily that visibility was close to zero, and driving home was a challenge. Bruce had to rely on the Batmobile’s navigation system more than his own eyes because all he could see past the windshield was swirling white snow.  
  
What Dick said was bothering Bruce. It was true—he hadn’t put a single thought towards making the holiday season special for Damian.  
  
Christmas was usually simple. Although maybe it was just simple for him because Alfred did most of the work. Alfred decorated and baked. They bought each other a few gifts—none of them needed much. They had dinner. And of course, there were company and foundation parties he was forced to attend in his Bruce Wayne persona, smiling for hours until his jaw ached.  
  
He had been busy the past week, tracking down the Riddler and foiling his latest scheme. But since he’d been apprehended just a couple days before, there were no longer any unaccounted villains roaming the streets. Gotham was as safe as it could be for now.  
  
He wanted Damian to have as normal a childhood as possible. He wanted him to be happy.   
  
He could take a few days off to spend with his family.   
  
The work he missed would just have to be made up for later.  
  
It was still snowing the next morning. The inhabitants of the manor were glad they didn’t have to venture outside and could stay where it was warm. Dick was done school until the new year and Bruce didn’t have to go into the office that day. Even if he was supposed to go to work, with the state of the roads it would have been smarter to stay home.  
  
So Bruce didn’t have much of an excuse to say no when Dick brought up the movie topic again after breakfast. He sat through the entire film trying to convince himself that he didn’t feel outraged on behalf of the characters having Christmas stolen from them—they weren’t even real. Damian was watching it with them as well, sitting on Bruce’s lap, and he was nowhere near as captivated by the movie as Dick was. His only reaction was hissing at the main character a few times.  
  
“The Grinch belongs in Arkham,” was Bruce’s opinion afterwards.  
  
“Weren’t you paying attention to the ending?” asked Dick, taking another handful of popcorn from the bowl. “He realized he made a mistake and fixed everything. He likes the Whos now. They’re all friends.”  
  
“He’s only going to strike again. I know his type.”  
  
Bruce soon regretted saying that, because Dick decided he hadn’t learned his lesson about holiday spirit and forced him to watch two more cheesy Christmas movies. Bruce found them incredibly dull and silly. He wasn’t used to sitting and watching television for so long. Damian had also grown bored, and squirmed down off of Bruce’s lap to the floor so he could go play with his toys. The only thing that made the movies bearable was Alfred’s snacks.   
  
But Bruce didn’t dare complain, because Dick was sitting beside him and seemed so pleased to be here, causing Bruce to wonder whether this was really a lesson in holiday spirit, or if that was just an excuse to spend time together. If that’s what Dick wanted, he could have just  _asked_.  
  
Dick laughed at every single bad joke and at the same time he would, without fail, glance over at Bruce for his reaction. Because of that, Bruce would quirk a smile now and then. Just to humour him.  
  
To Bruce’s relief, Alfred walked in as the credits to the third movie were rolling and Dick was mulling over DVD cases, trying to choose which to watch next. There were only so many movies Bruce could sit through in a row.   
  
“Master Richard, might I remind you that you’re due at Mount Justice in fifteen minutes?”  
  
“Right! Combat practice. Almost forgot.” Dick stood and stretched, stiff from hours sitting on the sofa, then turned to Bruce. “You’ve got a better idea of what I was talking about, right?” Bruce nodded, and Dick grinned. “Great! Now you can do Christmas stuff with Damian.“   
  
 _“Like what, exactly?”_  Bruce was about to ask, but Dick dashed out of the room before he could find out.  
  
Bruce looked down at Damian on the rug, who was busy trying to gnaw the leg off of a stuffed lion and didn’t seem interested in doing anything else.  
  
Alfred cleared his throat. “If you are looking for something to do this afternoon, perhaps you could decorate the tree.”  
  
“Don’t you and Dick usually do that?” That’s what Bruce assumed. He was used to emerging from the Batcave mid-December and finding everything already decorated. That’s how it always happened. Then, a couple of weeks later, the decorations would disappear again and Bruce would feel deeply relieved that everything was back to normal.  
  
“I was thinking you and Master Damian could take over this year,” said Alfred as he gathered and stacked the empty glasses and popcorn bowls. He gave Bruce a very pointed look, and Bruce realized, rather belatedly, that Alfred was trying to give him the perfect idea for Christmas bonding he’d been looking for.  
  
Boxes of ornaments waited by the base of the bare tree when Bruce entered the living room with Damian.  
  
“Damian, can you hand me an ornament?” Bruce asked, wanting to involve his son in the tree-decorating process. (The articles said that was good parenting.) Damian looked  in the nearest box and, after much, much deliberation, picked out a shiny, blue and gold orb that he hugged to his chest. Bruce held out his palm so that Damian could give it to him, but the boy shook his head. “Damian—”  
  
“Mine!” It was Damian’s favourite word lately.  
  
Bruce patiently explained that the ornaments were meant to go on the tree, but Damian wasn’t listening. He clutched the glass orb tighter and insisted, _“Mine.”_  
  
Bruce was smarter than to try prying it out of his tiny, vise-like hands. He sighed and let Damian hold onto that ornament while he got to work hanging the others on the tree.  
  
Damian watched him for an entire minute, just staring as Bruce decorated the Christmas tree with colourful ornaments like the one he held protectively in his hands, and then he toddled over to the tree and strained on his tiptoes, trying to reach as high as his father so he could hang his ornament on the tree, too. Damian could reach the lower branches easily, but it was clear by his determined grunts that he wanted it to go higher, as high as possible.  
  
Bruce picked him up by the waist and lifted him so he could hang it near the top. As Damian reached out, the ornament—that, like the others, had been in the family for generations, according to Alfred—slipped out of his hand and plummeted toward the hardwood floor.   
  
Out of reflex, Bruce shifted his grip so that Damian was being held against his side with one arm as he dropped to a crouch and used his freed hand to catch the ornament in the air, just before it smashed. Bruce gave it back to Damian, and on his second try he hung it on the tree perfectly.  
  
They shared a smile and continued like that—Bruce giving Damian an ornament, then lifting him up to reach the tree branches. The tree grew more colourful and sparkling as the box on the ground grew more empty, and Bruce felt a pang as he remembered how, a long time ago, almost in another life, he had been excited to help his parents with the Christmas tree. It was a memory that had remained buried under years of numb suppression, buried deeper than the cave beneath the manor, until now.  
  
When they ran out of decorations Bruce took a step back to inspect their work, still holding Damian in his arms. A little uneven—the lower branches were bare compared to the rest because Damian preferred to hang the ornaments high up—but not bad, overall. All that was missing was the golden star that went on the top. Bruce remembered that as being his favourite part of decorating the tree when he was young, and was surprised to remember it at all. It was something he hadn’t thought about in decades.  
  
With Bruce’s help, Damian placed the metal star in its proper spot at the very top. Bruce’s elbow brushed against the branches as he lowered Damian, knocking down a scarlet ornament. This time, there was nothing Bruce could do to stop it. It hit the floor with a distressing, tinkling crash of fine glass. Damian stared down at it, frowning.  
  
Bruce blinked once in shock, thinking fast.   
  
“We’re… We’re  _not_  going to tell Alfred about that,” he told Damian quietly, scooping up the fragments and arranging them on the floor by the far side of the tree, near the wall, where Alfred wouldn’t see them immediately and, when he did, he would think the ornament fell off the tree on its own. He wouldn’t suspect a thing.  


—

  
“He needs his scarf.”  
  
“It’s not that cold outside,” said Dick. But the stern look Bruce shot him made it clear that Damian wasn’t going anywhere near the snow without a scarf. “I know it’s around here somewhere…” Dick kept rooting around in the closet until Alfred showed up, sighed, and pulled the yellow, woollen scarf off the hook above Dick’s head, where it had been hiding underneath one of Bruce’s coats. Dick smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Alfred.”  
  
The wind had died down and Dick was finally allowed to take Damian outside, like he had been dying to do the entire day before. But first Damian had to be wearing all of his Batman-approved winter gear.  
  
Alfred wound the scarf around Damian’s neck as the toddler squirmed and whined. Damian was bundled up in a puffy red snowsuit, with a bright green hat and matching mittens. The only parts of him peeking through the layers of warm fabric were his tiny nose and his eyes narrowed in displeasure.  
  
“Now, the two of you have fun, and  _please_  remember to come inside frequently and warm up,” said Alfred, tugging Damian’s boots to make sure Bruce put them on properly.  
  
“Yeah, we promise. C’mon, Damian—snow time!”  
  
Damian tried to take a step and nearly tipped over. Dick had to carry him outside.  


—

  
Bruce took the opportunity to finish some important paperwork in his study. An hour and a half later, he hadn’t made much progress on the Watchtower upgrade reports because he kept leaning back in his chair so he could look out the large window behind him and catch a glimpse of the boys out there in the snow.   
  
The first thing they did was build a snow fort with lopsided walls out of a snowbank. Dick did all the work while Damian sat on a tall pile of snow and threw loose handfuls of it at his brother. Damian looked like he was enjoying himself. Bruce smiled as he turned back to his paperwork.  
  
Later, Dick was trying to coach Damian into making a snow angel, but Damian could barely move his arms and legs in his puffy winter gear.  
  
Later still, Bruce looked over and couldn’t see either of them. The fort was deserted and Damian’s bright yellow scarf was lying in the snow beside it.   
  
Something felt wrong.   
  
Bruce intercepted Dick on his way outside. Dick was by the door, pulling on his winter boots, and looked up when Bruce approached.  
  
“Where’s Damian?” Bruce asked. Dick raised his eyebrows, confused at the urgency in Bruce’s voice.  
  
“Outside?” He hopped outside after Bruce as he pulled on his other boot. His expression quickly changed to worry as he looked back and forth around the yard—Damian, even with the unmissable colours of his snow gear, was nowhere to be seen. “He—He was just here a minute ago!  _Less_  than a minute ago. We were going to build a snowman, so I ran inside real quick to get this.” Dick brandished the carrot he was holding. “He can’t have gone too far.”  
  
Bruce was examining the footprints in the snow. There were many of them—small ones for Damian and larger for Dick—crisscrossing over each other. Most were too jumbled and trampled to make sense of their paths, but one clearer set of Damian’s led out towards the trees nearby, at the edge of the yard.  
  
“This way.”  
  
Bruce and Dick followed the footprints until they joined up with what looked like rabbit tracks. They found Damian within seconds—it seemed he had spotted a rabbit, chased it, and sunk waist-deep in some soft, deep snow between the trees.  
  
He could have cried out for help, but he was determined to wriggle himself out of the snow without help. Even when he saw Bruce and Dick standing there, he kept struggling to free himself until Bruce picked him up, and only then did he start crying.   
  
He cried as Bruce carried him inside, kept crying as Bruce took off his boots and jacket and other winter clothes, and cried even louder as Bruce brought him into the kitchen, where Alfred was. Cocoa would be too hot for Damian so instead Alfred gave him warm chocolate milk, which made him stop crying immediately.  


—

  
Damian didn’t sleep well that night. He kept fussing and complaining, whimpering from his crib and calling for  _Dad_ ,  _Alfred_ ,  _Dick_  if left alone. Bruce didn’t sleep either, out of worry.  
  
It was apparent by morning, when Damian’s fussing turned into coughing and sneezing, that he had come down with a cold.  
  
“It’s probably not even from being out in the snow,” Dick insisted in his defense. “It’s probably because it’s always so drafty in here.” But he felt guilty whenever Damian sneezed, and spent more time playing with him and snuck him extra candy to make up for it.  
  
Bruce called Dr Thompkins. She came over to the Manor at his urging and confirmed that what Damian had was just a mild cold. He simply needed rest and plenty of fluids. _No, Bruce, it’s not the flu. Yes, I’m sure. It wasn’t the flu last week when he had a headache, and it isn’t the flu now!_  
  
The rest of their holiday preparations, like the wrapping of presents and the baking and cooking, were shadowed with concern over Damian’s constant coughing and sniffling.  
  
Damian got himself into plenty of trouble because he knew he could get away with anything while he was sick. He nearly brought the entire tree down on himself when he tugged on the string of lights because they were glowing and he wanted to take them. He crawled into one of the stockings yet to be hung by the fireplace when he saw Alfred putting treats inside them, and refused to get out for half an hour, growling menacingly if anyone tried to pull him out by his feet.  
  
Bruce kept sneaking off to work on case reports whenever he got the chance. Dick almost called him out on it when he slunk away just before they were supposed to bake Christmas cookies, but Alfred placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder and shook his head.  
  
“It’s for the best,” Alfred said quietly, after Bruce had left. “You know what happens when Master Bruce attempts anything more complicated than toast.”  
  
Bruce was making a hell of an effort this Christmas, though, and Dick had to appreciate that. It was a huge change from the past few Christmases—they usually had to drag him out of the cave for dinner.  
  
One especially cold afternoon, Dick walked into the living room in search of his history textbook and saw Bruce and Damian sitting in the chair in front of the warm, crackling fireplace. Damian was dozing in the curve of Bruce’s arm. Bruce was busily typing on a laptop balanced on his knee, but it was about as close to cuddling as he ever got. Dick smiled and crept backwards as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t disturb them.  


—

  
Alfred was washing the after-dinner dishes when Dick slid in. Dick skated across the smooth kitchen floor in his socks and hummed to himself happily. It was Christmas Eve, and Dick had spent most of the day at Mount Justice with his friends.  
  
“You seem in good spirits, Master Richard. Did your team’s holiday party go well?”  
  
“Sure did. Mistletoe’s really great,” he said dreamily. He slid over to Damian, who was sitting in his high chair, and ruffled his dark hair. “Hey, little D. You feeling any better?”  
  
Damian sniffled. “No,” he said bleakly. “Worse.”  
  
“He still doesn’t have much of a fever, thankfully,” said Alfred.  
  
“Bruce would be flipping out if he did,” Dick said, picking up a clean towel and helping Alfred by drying the dishes. “Remember last time?”   
  
Alfred gave Dick a look that said it was best not to bring up last time—it was something they should all try to forget.  
  
“Where is Master Bruce? Patrolling already?”  
  
“Yeah. I saw him in the cave just as he was leaving, but he told me to stay here with you guys. Said he was only going on a quick patrol, for just an hour or two, so that people will see him once and think Batman’s out there all night.”  
  
Dick convinced Alfred into relaxing and watching some Christmas TV specials with him, not that it took too much effort, with this particular evening being as special as it was. Less than an hour later, Bruce appeared in the doorway with his hair still mussed from wearing the cowl.  
  
“Back so soon, Master Bruce?” asked Alfred with a knowing smile.  
  
Damian reached up and grunted demandingly, and Bruce obeyed, bending down to pick his son up in his arms. “Quiet night.”  
  
Damian’s arms wrapped around his neck, and by the way Bruce’s expression softened it was obvious that, this one night, he just couldn’t bear to stay away.  


—

  
Bruce kept thinking about the word Dick had used on the night of the snowstorm— _magical_. Disregarding the sheer dislike and skepticism Bruce felt towards the word, he would have to admit it suited the way Damian’s eyes shone on Christmas morning at the lights and decorations, at the bright colours and delicious smells, at all the attention and warmth. Damian wasn’t a child that smiled often, but Bruce saw him smile more that day than ever before.  
  
Everyone was in a good mood. Alfred looked pleased to have the entire family spending time together. There were too many years the house had stood cold and quiet.   
  
Dick wouldn’t stop smiling, wouldn’t stop talking. He told Damian stories about his Christmases at the circus, stories that neither Bruce or Alfred had ever heard before, and there wasn’t an ounce of pain in his voice—these were happy stories that made him laugh as he told them.  
  
Just after dinner, as they were about to clear the dishes for Alfred, Bruce pulled Dick into a quick, one-armed hug that seemed to surprise the boy. Bruce was glad to know that not just Damian, but  _both_  of his sons, were having a good Christmas.


	2. the year he met santa

Dick tapped his pencil against his notebook, trying and failing to concentrate on memorizing these formulas. Tomorrow he had his last test before winter break and he was studied out.  
  
He pushed his notes away from him and looked down at Damian sitting on the floor, holding a crayon in his chubby little hand and drawing on a piece of paper with intense focus. Damian never scribbled. His drawings were amazing for someone so young—he was barely potty-trained and already he was drawing recognizable, rather proportional people.  
  
Dick knelt down beside Damian to peek at what he was drawing this time, and was delighted to see that it was all holiday-themed—snowflakes and pine trees and  _Santa_. Dick had spent the past three weeks trying to get Damian excited about Santa Claus, now that Damian was old enough to sort of understand who Santa was. He was glad that his stories were getting through to his overly serious little brother.  
  
“Damian, are you making Christmas cards? Those are really good! Can I—”  
  
Damian gave him a swift and stern glare, and Dick pulled his hand away from the papers. “Sorry. But, hey, I’ve got an idea. Is it okay if I borrow a blank paper? And a crayon?”  
  
“Fine,” said Damian, going back to his drawing and huddling over the paper to hide it from Dick. He made an angry noise when he noticed Dick reaching for his favourite red crayon. “No! Not that one.”  
  
Dick took a green one instead and wrote  _To Santa_  at the top of the page. He figured that he’d brainstorm with Damian and make a rough draft, then coach Damian into copying out the final letter himself. “Is there anything you want to tell Santa?” Dick asked. “Like… what presents do you want to get for Christmas this year?”  
  
Dick wrote down each item as Damian listed them. Toys (most of them Batman-related, Dick noted with a smile) and books and art supplies. He reminded himself to give Alfred and Bruce a copy of this later. “Is that everything?”  
  
Damian paused in his colouring. He looked hesitant, biting his lip like he was considering something, but ultimately he said, “Yes.”  
  
“If you think of more, just let me know, okay? I’ll make sure Santa is informed. Or you can tell your dad. Batman has a direct line of contact with Santa, you know.”  
  
“Really?” Damian asked skeptically, frowning. Dick could tell he was having trouble believing it. Damian was almost too smart for his own good—he couldn’t be fooled.  
  
But that didn’t mean Dick couldn’t try. He nodded, completely serious. “You bet. Santa’s like an honourary member of the Justice League. He and Superman get along really well, actually…”  
  


—

  
Damian insisted on walking from the car to the department store, but after they pushed through the rotating glass doors and found themselves amid a loud, impatient crowd of holiday shoppers talking and jostling each other with their shopping bags, Bruce chose to carry Damian instead.  
  
It was just too busy. Too easy for them to get separated if Damian let go of his hand for  a second. Bruce wouldn’t risk it, even with Dick here to help keep an eye on him.  
  
When they got on the escalator Damian squirmed in Bruce’s arms, adamant to stand on his own, and Bruce had to put him down. Damian held onto the handrail, peering down at the bustling shoppers below. He kept staring down at them as they neared the top of the escalator and Bruce picked him up again.  
  
“- _Tt_ -,” was Damian’s final judgement on the crowd of people. Disinterested, he turned away and rested his head against Bruce’s shoulder.  
  
Dick kept falling behind as they walked, wanting to stop and look at everything—the glimmering decorations, a display of sunglasses, shelves of chocolate and candy, electronics. And even things that Bruce couldn’t imagine the sixteen-year-old having any interest in, like housewares and luggage. As long as it was colourful, Dick wanted to take a look.  
  
“Bruce, can we stop for a sec?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“But I saw something I want to buy as a gift for Barbara!”  
  
“Later.”  
  
Bruce kept his head down and his pace brisk, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone and hoping he wouldn’t be recognized, so that this outing would go as smoothly as possible.   
  
The toy department was just as crowded as the rest of the store—with children as well as adults—and much, much louder. Damian was struggling to be let down again, and Bruce had no choice. He wouldn’t have been able to hold onto Damian if he tried, not around all these brand-new, brightly-packaged toys. He grabbed Damian’s hand tightly so they wouldn’t be separated.  
  
Dick was hanging back in the middle of the aisle, trying not to get in anybody’s way, and stifled a laugh into his jacket sleeve when he saw Bruce nudge Damian closer to the Batman toys under the pretense of making room for some rowdy five-year-olds who wanted to look at the Superman merchandise on the shelf beside it.  
  
A gap of space opened in the crowded aisle, and Dick used it to worm his way closer to the shelf and stand beside Bruce. He grinned and pointed at one of the boxed toys. “Look! It’s the Batmobile!”  
  
“No, it’s not,” said Bruce. It wasn’t even close. The tires were almost comically oversized, it was black and yellow instead of an all-over ink black, and the real version didn’t have Bat symbols painted over the headlights.  
  
“Pretty decent replica, though,” said Dick, turning the box over in his hands. “And it’s remote controlled! And it lights up!”  
  
“Damian’s too young for that toy.” Damian was mature for his age in many ways, but one habit he couldn’t break was biting things, including his toys. Anything with small or easily snapped parts was an automatic _no_.  
  
Reluctantly, Dick placed it back on the shelf. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”  
  
“Here, I’m putting you in charge of this.” Bruce handed Dick the folded-up list and his credit card. “I’ll stay with Damian and see if there’s anything else he wants.”  
  
“Roger. Have fun!” Dick backed away, slipping into the crowd.  
  
 _Fun_ , Bruce thought wryly as a child down the aisle began screaming at the top of her lungs because her parents wouldn’t buy her the toy she wanted. He’d be lucky to get out of here without a migraine.  
  
Like always, Bruce found himself thankful that Damian seldom threw tantrums in public. Damian used to. He used to scream and howl if he didn’t get his way, but something changed after he noticed other children his age causing scenes at the park or at daycare. Now Damian seemed to think he was better than that.  
  
But he had his limits, and being here among all these loudly-talking, pushy people was testing them. He was going to be in a cranky mood when they took him to meet the department store’s Santa Claus. Already, Damian was fidgeting and glaring around at the surrounding people in irritation, ready to lash out if anyone bumped into him.  
  
Bruce still thought meeting Santa was a bad idea. Damian didn’t behave well around strangers. Dick had  _insisted_  on it, though.  
  
Dick was smoothly weaving through the throng of people, seeking out the toys on Damian’s list, which they’d wrap up and label as from Santa. Bruce tried to keep Damian distracted—meanwhile regretting that they didn’t just order the presents—by taking him up and down the aisles to browse the toys on the shelves.   
  
They didn’t take Damian toy shopping often, since most of his toys were educational, meant for gifted children, and bought through a special catalog. Damian was incredibly picky about choosing toys he liked. He didn’t want the same thing as anyone else. He would show interest in a toy, but if he saw another child pick up the same one  he immediately turned up his nose at it in distaste.  
  
They were in the stuffed animal section when Dick rejoined them. Damian had finally found something he liked. He was clutching a soft, grey toy cat and had made it clear that he was  _not_  leaving without it.  
  
Dick gave Bruce a quick thumbs-up. “I arranged the delivery. They just need you to sign over at the register,” he said quietly so Damian wouldn’t hear. He noticed the cat plushie that Damian was hugging, and raised an eyebrow at Bruce in amusement. “Heh. Like father, like son.”  
  
They passed the superhero aisle on the way to the register and Dick lagged behind to look at the Batmobile toy again.  
  
Bruce sighed. “Dick, if you want it, I can buy it for you.”  
  
“No… No, that’s okay,” said Dick, even though he was having trouble tearing his eyes away from it. “I don’t actually need it. I just think it’s cool.”  
  
“So can we go? Alfred’s waiting for us.” Bruce checked his watch. If they could get this over with quickly he might have time to work on those chemical analyses before patrol.  
  
“Yep.” Dick threw it one more thoughtful backwards glance. They waited in line at the nearest cash register, and were next to pay when Dick abruptly turned back and hurried away, calling over his shoulder, “I changed my mind! I want it.”  
  
When Bruce finally got to pay, he noticed the toy donation bin beside the counter. The charity was one he recognized. A good, honest one that helped underprivileged kids. He usually organized donations for them through his company, especially at this time of year. But, since he was here…  
  
Bruce pulled out his cheque book.  
  


—

  
Curious whispers surrounded them as they waited in the long line to meet the store’s Santa Claus. They were the target of many subtle (and not-so-subtle) glances from the other families, those farther away actually craning on their toes to catch a glimpse of Gotham’s famous family.   
  
Bruce knew it was bound to happen no matter how low a profile he tried to keep and, like the others, pretended not to notice. Dick was telling Alfred about something that happened in school that week. Damian was being kept happy by the juice box Alfred gave him. He had one arm wrapped around Dick’s leg and was staring at the other children in line like he was sizing them up.  
  
Bruce busied himself with his cell phone. It was linked with the Batcave’s computer, and he could see that one of the analyses he had left running was complete. He scrolled through the final data intently, hoping for a breakthrough in the case he was working on. When he next looked up, they were at the front of the line.  
  
At first Damian was hesitant to leave them. He clung to the fabric of Dick’s pants, looking back and forth from the smiling Santa to Bruce.  
  
Bruce nodded at him encouragingly.  _Go on_.  
  
Damian took a deep breath and stepped forward, letting the Santa pick him up and sit him on his knee.  
  
Bruce had made sure to do a thorough background check beforehand. The man’s record was spotless. This wasn’t a villain in disguise—he was a real store Santa. And a very convincing one, merry and smiling and  _hohoho_ -ing. Though the curly white beard was obviously fake.  
  
“Well, Damian,” said the Santa after introductions were made. “What presents would you like this Christmas?”  
  
“More books,” muttered Damian. He took a while to warm up to strangers.  
  
“Aren’t you a smart one. You don’t want any toys?”  
  
“They bought toys.” Damian narrowed his eyes in suspicion and said slowly, accusingly, “You’re s’posed to know.”  
  
The Santa let out his signature jolly laugh and cheerfully made an excuse—he was still getting around to checking that list twice, apparently—and mentioned what a bright young man Damian was, but it was clear by Damian’s scowl that he wasn’t buying it.  
  
“Is there anything else you want for Christmas?” Santa asked, trying to get a smile out of Damian. “Anything special?”  
  
“No,” Damian said firmly, crossing his arms. “Can’t. Secret.”  
  
“It’s all right if you don’t want to tell me, but it sure would make my elves’ jobs easier if—”  
  
“No!” Damian hollered, his face beginning to turn red in the tell-tale sign of an impending tantrum. “I don’t like him! Want to go home!”   
  
He tried to wriggle down off of the Santa’s knee, but the man grabbed Damian around the waist to stop him from falling and getting hurt. That only made Damian angrier. One of Damian’s flailing hands caught the Santa’s fake beard and tugged, pulling it right off his face.  
  
Bruce, perfectly playing the part of the embarrassed, stricken parent, darted forward and scooped Damian into his arms, babbling apology after apology as he patted his son on the back to try and calm him.  
  
He turned and mouthed  _‘We’re leaving’_  at Alfred and Dick. They practically had to jog after him to catch up.  
  
Bruce handed Damian to Alfred on the way out. He had his cell phone in hand and hit speed dial as they walked through the doors. “Clark, I need a favour.”  
  


—

  
It was a challenge to get Damian to go to bed on Christmas Eve. He had gotten ahold of a few too many sweets over the course of the evening, and was hyped up and energetic from the sugar coursing through his system. He seemed ready to outlast even Bruce, who was exhausted from staying up the past few nights to finish a case before Christmas. Bruce’s eyes were bloodshot and he fought to keep them open while letting Damian win game after game of checkers.  
  
“Christmas morning will arrive sooner if you go to bed on time,” Alfred tried to convince Damian, to no avail.  
  
In the end, only Dick’s promise of a bedtime story—a  _good_  bedtime story that didn’t include Santa, since any mention of Santa Claus was guaranteed put Damian in sulky, disagreeable mood—was enough to get him to his bedroom and in his pajamas. Dick’s stories were Damian’s favourite because he acted out all the parts with ridiculous voices and big gestures.  
  
Alfred was just about to tuck Damian into his Bat symbol-patterned sheets when he glanced over at the door and frowned. “Did you hear something, Master Richard?” he asked.  
  
Dick did his best to keep a straight face. “Nope. Why, did you?”  
  
“I could have sworn… Master Damian, do  _you_  hear anything?”  
  
Damian cocked his head to the side, listening intently. “Intruder,” he said quietly.  
  
“No, Damian, it’s not—” Dick began, but Damian had already slipped out of bed and was running out into the hallway, determined to face down this threat to his family. “Nonono. Come back!” Dick called after him. “He’s not an intruder!”  
  
Damian beat them to the living room. He was standing with his hands clenched into fists at his sides when they caught up. By the twinkling Christmas tree, caught in the act of placing presents on the rug, was Santa Claus.  
  
“You,” Damian growled, looking about as threatening as an annoyed puppy. “Why are you here?”  
  
Clark smiled warmly at Damian. When Bruce asked him to don a Santa costume and come to the manor on Christmas Eve, he’d agreed immediately. So now here he was, wearing a bright red suit with white fur trim, hidden padding underneath giving him the round-bellied Santa shape. Bruce had bought the best Santa costume he could find and it was accurate down to the smallest details, like the real leather gloves and boots and the shiny brass buckle on the belt. Much more convincing than any cheap outfit worn by a mall Santa. But what really completed the picture was Clark’s acting. It was undeniable—Clark made the perfect Santa.   
  
“Why, I’m here to deliver your presents, Damian. It’s me—Santa Claus! Don’t tell me you don’t recognize old Saint Nick.” He rummaged in the brown sack he brought with him and pulled out a gift wrapped in shimmering gold paper that he gave to Damian. “According to my list, you’ve been a very good boy this year. I have plenty of presents with your name on them.”  
  
Bruce had joined them and his lip twitched as he watched Clark patting the fake belly and  _hohoho_ -ing in a deep voice. He was trying very hard not to laugh.  
  
“See, it turns out that the Santa at the mall was an impostor, and thanks to you they managed to catch him,” Dick explained to Damian, who was staring at the present in his hands and struggling to understand. “So the real one’s here to say thanks.”  
  
Damian looked up at his father for confirmation. “It’s true,” said Bruce seriously. “Good job, Damian.”  
  
Clark knelt down in front of Damian to talk at his level, and Damian didn’t attack him or try to run away. That was a good sign.  
  
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet sooner,” Clark said. “But I got your letter. I think I found you all the presents on your list but if there’s anything else you want, it’s not too late to tell me. I want you to have a good Christmas.”  
  
Damian’s eyes were wide and conflicted. After a moment of silent uncertainty, he tugged on Clark’s fur-lined sleeve, and Clark knelt down lower so Damian could whisper in his ear. Clark’s face dropped as he listened, the jolly Santa guise completely forgotten. Whatever Damian was telling him was breaking his heart.  
  
The others could only guess what Damian was so scared to admit he wanted for Christmas. But it wasn’t hard to figure out—really, there was only one thing Damian was missing in his life. One person. But there wasn’t much they could do about it.  
  
“Maybe one day,” Clark said softly, pulling Damian into a hug that, surprisingly, the usually wary boy didn’t reject. “You should talk to your dad about it. He can…” Clark met Bruce’s eyes over Damian’s shoulder. Bruce’s expression was unreadable. “He’ll see what he can do.”  
  
“Fine,” said Damian, looking down at his feet.  
  
Clark spouted a few more holiday clichés—telling Damian about reindeer and elves and Mrs Claus—and after Damian started yawning, finally tired, he said goodbye. Couldn’t keep the other children waiting, after all.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Damian!” Clark said merrily, gearing up to zoom out at superspeed so it would seem like he vanished magically, in the blink of an eye.  
  
“Goodbye, Uncle Clark,” said Damian, waving.  
  
Dick couldn’t stop laughing for five minutes after—he had never seen Bruce look so utterly  _dumbstruck_  before. Clark was shocked, too, but he didn’t compare to Bruce. Bruce nearly choked in disbelief.  
  
Damian was just too smart sometimes.

 


	3. the year jason became his brother

“Jason.”  
  
Of course the kid would want something  _now_ , after Jason had collapsed on the sofa, ready for a nap. His body and brain were aching from the neverending training exercises, combat practice, and studying. Not that he complained much. Only a little. Sometimes. It was still the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he wouldn’t give up the chance to be Robin for anything, but right now he could really use a good half hour of sle—  
  
“ _Jason_.”  
  
He kept his eyes tightly shut and pondered how he had gone from an only child to a middle child so suddenly. One night he was jacking Batman’s tires, and now he was part of a new family, squeezed between a popular golden boy he kept trying and failing to measure up to, and a spoiled, precocious three-and-a-half-year-old who could do no wrong.  
  
He didn’t hate it. Even though one of his new brothers was tugging hard on his sleeve and whining in his ear, becoming harder and harder to ignore.  
  
“Jay- _son_ ,” Damian demanded, and  _ow_ —those were  _sharp_  kiddy fingernails digging into Jason’s eyelids as Damian tried to pry them open.  
  
Jason sat up, swatting Damian’s hands away from his face. “Okay, okay, you got me—I’m awake. What’s up?”  
  
“I want you to help me find the presents,” Damian said with that determined look that meant he was going to get his way or all would suffer the consequences. “They bought some already and hid them. I want to find them.”  
  
“I don’t get it. Are you  _trying_  to get in trouble, squirt?” Jason shook his head. “You can’t  take the presents before Christmas. I don’t think that’s how it works.”  
  
“I’m not going to  _take_  them. Just find them.”  
  
Jason sighed and tousled his little brother’s spiky-soft hair, knowing there was no way he could get out of this—not with Damian giving him those sad puppy eyes. “We should get Dick to help. He probably has better ideas of where to look. I’m still getting lost in this house.”  
  
“I asked him. He helped hide them this year.”  
  
“He went over to the dark side, huh?” Jason asked through a yawn. “Whatta jerkface.”  
  
“Jerkface,” Damian agreed seriously. He was a little brainiac and probably knew a hundred words that Jason wouldn’t even be able to pronounce, but for some reason he was fascinated by Jason’s favourites and took to them like a parrot. Bruce and Alfred weren’t pleased.  
  
Jason tried his best to get up from the sofa—he really did—but it was comfy and his limbs felt so heavy and sore that he plopped back down and rolled over onto his side. “Tell you what…” he said sleepily. “Wake me up at four-thirty and then we can—”  
  
“ _Now_!” yelled Damian, stamping his foot on the floor.

 

—

  
Twenty minutes of searching through closets and being bossed around by a preschooler later, Jason was standing beside Damian outside the closed door of the master bedroom. And while Jason knew going into Bruce’s room was just a stupid, stupid idea and just asking for trouble, Damian insisted that they  _had_  to. It was the only closet they hadn’t checked.  
  
Sure, Damian would want to go through with it. He wasn’t the one who would get lectured for snooping. Jason was the older brother, the one in charge, the one who should probably know better. This was going to be like that time with the fireworks all over again.  
  
“Frightened?” asked Damian smugly.  
  
“Me? Frightened? Seriously, kid. I got this.” Jason reached for the doorknob and turned it carefully, trying to open the door without a creak. Bruce was down in the cave anyway, working. Chances were he wouldn’t come upstairs for hours.   
  
Sometimes Jason thought that chance just wasn’t on his side. This was one of those times. They had only been rummaging through Bruce’s roomy walk-in closet for a minute or two—jeez he had a lot of suits; a whole wall of them—when Jason heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. Cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he dropped the pair of socks he was holding and turned to see Bruce standing in the doorway.   
  
Busted.  
  
“Hey. Did you need something?” Jason asked nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just been caught redhanded searching through Bruce’s sock drawer.   
  
They stood there silently for an inordinate amount of time, Bruce frowning sternly, waiting for Jason to explain, and Jason with his arms crossed, pretending he didn’t need to say anything in his defense. Finally, Bruce asked the obvious question. “Why are you in my closet?”  
  
“I was just searching for the kid here.” Jason reached into a row of hanging jackets and tugged a protesting Damian out by the collar. “And, look, I found him! So now we’re gonna—”  
  
“Jason…” Bruce began, a sharp hint of impatience in his voice. Jason couldn’t slip around him since he practically took up the whole doorway.  
  
“Fine, but  _he_  talked me into it, okay?” Jason paused to shoot Damian an accusing glare, then looked back to Bruce and admitted wearily, “We’re trying to find the Christmas presents.”  
  
A few tense seconds passed where Bruce didn’t say anything and Jason wondered glumly how many push-ups this was going to cost him. To Jason’s surprise, Bruce’s mouth twitched into an amused half-smirk. “I suppose you can  _try_ ,” was all he said before he turned and walked away, and it sounded like a challenge.  
  


—

  
Jason propped the snow shovel against the brick wall and rubbed his mittened hands together, breathing on them to warm his numb fingers. Grudgingly, he picked up the shovel again. He was almost done shoveling the steps, and the sooner he got this finished, the sooner he could go inside.  
  
Alfred had caught the two boys poking around in the pantry and, since they were _clearly_  in need of something productive to do, sent them outside. Jason was given the chore of clearing the walkways, while Damian got to play in the snow.   
  
But Jason had given Damian a chore of his own. The toddler was sitting on the other side of the tall snowbank Jason had created with his shoveling, and was patting handfuls of snow into shape.  
  
“That’s it, squirt,” said Jason encouragingly. “Keep those snowballs coming. I need to get back at Dick for flipping me in combat training.” His head whirled around at the sound of the door scraping open and he quickly dove behind the pile of snow to hide. “Ssh!” he told Damian, craning his neck to peek over at the door.  
  
Dick was stepping outside, zipping his jacket up and then sticking his hands in his pockets because he hadn’t bothered to find his gloves. He looked around and noticed the snow shovel lying abandoned on the path.   
  
“Jason? Damian?” he called out. “You guys out here? Alfred said he wants your help with—”  
  
Jason sprang up and, with a ringing laugh, flung snowball after snowball at Dick’s face, catching the older teen completely off-guard for once. Dick spluttered, not given a chance to recover from the shock or wipe the snow off his face as he was pelted with even more snowballs.   
  
Dick tried to dodge and slipped on a patch of slick ice. He fell spectacularly, legs flying up and arms flailing, and landed on his back with a yelp of pain.  
  
Jason’s eyes went wide with panic. That wasn’t supposed to happen. “Shi— I mean, oops!” he corrected himself before he swore, glancing at Damian.  
  
Dick was hissing in pain through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, and wasn’t getting up. Part of Jason thought Dick was just being dramatic like always, but it was possible that he’d gotten seriously hurt.   
  
Jason slowly stepped closer to Dick, who was still flat on his back. “Are you—” Jason’s question turned into a shout of outrage when he felt something ice-cold splat against the back of his head and spill down onto his neck. He turned around and saw Damian standing there with a tiny smirk and snowballs held in his mittened hands. Traitor. “Damian, why’d—”  
  
He let out a surprised  _oof_  as he was tackled from behind by Dick.  _Faker_. The two of them crashed into the snowbank, and though Jason struggled to get free, Dick was stronger and he ended up having his face held down and buried in the freezing snow.  
  
“Get off me!” he yelled, shaking off Dick’s grip enough to lift his head up. His face was red and stinging—snow against bare skin was torture.  
  
Dick slung an arm around Jason’s neck and pulled him close to give him a ruthless noogie. “Jay,  _you’re_  the one who wanted to start a snow fight,” he reminded him tauntingly, laughing. “Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”  
  
Damian decided that he wanted to be a part of this snow fight, too—he still had a pile of readymade snowballs at his disposal, and was pelting both of his brothers with them indiscriminately.  
  
“Nooo!” Damian whined when Dick “attacked” him with a hug. He beat at his older brother’s shoulders with his little fists. “No!  _No_! Desist!”  
  


—

  
A few more days of fruitless present-hunting passed. Damian just wouldn’t give it up. One afternoon he even convinced Jason to help him search in the one place they hadn’t looked yet—the Batcave.   
  
The only reason Jason went along with it was because he knew Damian was going to get into the Batcave with or without his help, and he didn’t want the kid getting hurt trying to climb up and move the hands on the grandfather clock.  
  
They didn’t find any presents. They only found Bruce, back from the Watchtower early and displeased with them because Damian wasn’t supposed to be in the Batcave unless he was under Bruce’s supervision. There were too many sharp, dangerous tools and Damian had a knack for getting in trouble.  
  
The next afternoon the presents were moved to where they were untouchable—under the Christmas tree—and Damian’s sneaky plot was ruined. There was no way he could peek under the paper without risking Alfred, Dick, Bruce walking in and catching him in the act.  
  
The shiny wrapping paper and colourful ribbon seemed to taunt Damian. He spent most of his time obsessing over what could be inside each box.  
  
Usually when Jason was babysitting Damian, the kid wanted to play video games or organize elaborate wars between his stuffed animals, but now he just wanted to sit in the living room and stare at the presents, scooting as close to them as he could get away with.  
  
Damian was surveying the tree over the top of the book he was reading, paying little attention to the pages of cartoon jungle animals that were supposed to teach him multiplication. “We need an x-ray machine,” he said firmly, setting the book aside and standing up. “There’s one in the cave.”  
  
“We’re not taking these down to get x-rayed,” said Jason, thumbs mashing at the buttons of the handheld video game he borrowed from Dick’s room. “We won’t even make it down the hallway without getting caught.”  
  
Damian huffed in irritation. “Don’t you want to know what they are?”  
  
“I think I can wait a few more days,” said Jason calmly, to Damian’s intense frustration. While Jason contemplated his next move against his digital opponent— _attack, switch, or heal?_ —Damian poked and jostled the shiny gifts, trying to gather clues.  
  
“That’s a sweater,” Damian deduced, pointing at a green-wrapped package with Jason’s name on it.  
  
“Really? Cool.” Jason thought it was kinda surreal that some of them were actually for _him_ , labelled with his name. Sure, he’d been adopted by Bruce, so he was technically a part of the family, but he had only been living with them for a couple months.  
  
“No. Sweaters are dumb,” said Damian. “What did you ask Santa for?”   
  
Damian was relentless. Most kids were excited about the topic of Christmas. Damian treated it with all the obsessive seriousness one would expect from Batman’s son.   
  
“Umm… Y’know. Stuff.” Jason hadn’t actually asked for anything. He hadn’t expected to get anything. He would have been perfectly happy just to spend Christmas here and eat Alfred’s cooking, with no presents.   
  
Damian pouted, unsatisfied with that answer. He climbed onto the sofa and settled in Jason’s lap, which meant he wanted a story. He wasn’t leaving without one. And today the story he demanded was a retelling of every single one of Jason’s Christmases.  
  
Jason chewed on his bottom lip, trying to come up with a decent story to tell Damian. It wasn’t that all of his holidays have been bad, only plain. Empty. Nothing special really happened, nothing interesting enough to talk about. Just snow and decorations in store windows and more people crowding the sidewalks. He made a few things up, sure to include Santa. Dick would kill him if he let slip the truth about Santa Claus around Damian.  
  
There was one Christmas that stuck out in his memory. He told Damian about the year he got a couple of matchbox cars—a red one and a black one, he thought, but that might’ve been wrong. He only remembered that they had been awesome. He wasn’t sure how old he’d been. Eight? Nine? He was pretty sure it was during his mom’s last good Christmas, before she got sick. Or, before she got  _really_  sick. Her health was up and down for most of his childhood. Good phases and bad phases. Steady jobs or welfare. Decent boyfriends or scumbags.  
  
“What about last year?” Damian asked. He was starting to look drowsy, wiggling to nestle more comfortably against Jason’s arm. Examining presents was serious detective work. It sure could tire a kid out.  
  
“Last year I was at this group foster home… I dunno if they—I mean, if  _Santa_  was going to bring us any presents. I ditched the place before Christmas.”  
  
“Where did you go?”  
  
“East end. I made a couple of friends and stayed with them.” If he could call them friends—more like partners in crime. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed being a part of their cons and heists, but it was better than being alone on the streets in the middle of winter. “We, uh, ‘found’ enough cash to get by.”  
  
Damian was frowning thoughtfully. “You should have come here.”  
  
“I couldn’t just—”  
  
“Why not?” Damian interrupted. He had that little wrinkle between his eyebrows that appeared whenever he didn’t understand something. “You’re here  _now_.”  
  
Damian knew big words and math and the best ways to get Jason into trouble, but he was too young to have a clue about how the world really worked.  
  
“Yeah, I’m here now,” Jason agreed. “And I’m  _not_  going to help you x-ray those presents, squirt. You’re just gonna have to wait til Christmas. It’s only two days. Think you can wait that long?”  
  
Damian yawned. “I suppose.”  
  


—

  
Damian was right about the sweater. It was bulky and lime green with a Christmas tree pattern. From Dick. And Dick was adamant that Jason try it on immediately, threatening to pull it over Jason’s head by force. It was already itching him but Jason smiled anyway, even though he was never going to wear the thing again in his life. Never.  
  
The best part of Christmas wasn’t getting presents, or eating too many of Alfred’s cookies, or seeing Bruce somewhat relax for once, although those were all great. It was watching Damian open the gifts he had been fixated on for so long. He was usually such a grouchy little kid, but not today.  
  
Damian ripped off the wrapping paper gleefully, making a huge mess of shredded paper and loose ribbons. It was possible that he was more excited about unwrapping the presents than the presents themselves. When there were no more unopened boxes under the tree he played with the torn wrapping paper strewn around him, enjoying the loud, crackly rustling sounds it made.  
  
“Isn’t there one more present left?” Dick asked, winking at Alfred. The butler left the room and returned shortly with a box wrapped in red with a gold ribbon, that he handed to Jason.   
  
Jason looked from the present to Dick, Bruce, and Alfred. The three of them had matching smiles.  
  
“Open it,” Damian ordered, looking intently at the brightly-wrapped gift. He seemed even more curious than Jason to see what was inside.  
  
“No way,” Jason said in awe upon tearing off the paper and opening the box. He lifted up something made of sleek red fabric and stared transfixed at the  _R_  logo, his mouth hanging open, at a loss for words. “Are you  _serious_?” he managed to choke out after a moment, his eyes finding Bruce.  
  
“You still have plenty of training to go through before I let you out into the field,” said Bruce. “But we thought that giving it to you today would be fitting.”  
  
Jason was quick to go change out of that godawful sweater and into his new Robin uniform. He didn’t take off the uniform for the rest of the day, which he spent running around the house while giving Damian piggyback rides, claiming that it was the best day of his life.


	4. the year dick almost didn't make it home in time

Each year around Christmas, Bruce’s company held a charity gala in the most spacious, ostentatious banquet hall in the city, decorated with so many twinkling strings of lights and sparkling tinsel that Jason felt dizzy even while standing still.  
  
Jason was stuck with babysitting duty during the gala, so he had to stand by and wait while Damian was being surrounded by a gaggle of young women who wouldn’t stop cooing over the youngest, cutest Wayne. Damian was positively soaking up the attention. He was showing off, letting them quiz him on math and the capital cities of countries so he could prove what a genius he was.  
  
“You’re so smart,” one of the women said fondly, patting him on the head with a well-manicured hand. That annoyed him, and he frowned and fixed his hair immediately. “Are you going to take over your daddy’s company someday?”  
  
“I plan on continuing my father’s work,” Damian said imperiously. “ _All_  of my father’s work.”  
  
The women eventually moved on to mingle with the crowd and get more champagne, and Damian, slightly miffed at the loss of his fanclub, found Jason leaning against one of the decorative pillars and demanded to be taken to the dessert table with haste.  
  
They looked like brothers tonight, both in dark suits with crisp white shirts that were identical enough to make Jason feel like a complete idiot.  _Why, Alfred?_     
  
Jason hated the suit. The formal parties were the worst part of being Bruce’s adopted son. He hated the restricting fabric and the stiff shoes. He had slipped off his tie the second he was out of Bruce’s sight. Damian wore his own golden-yellow tie and tiny suit proudly, like a true Wayne heir. And he looked so freaking adorable that Jason couldn’t resist grabbing him in a headlock and giving him an affectionate noogie. It was his brotherly duty.  
  
“Hi, boys!” a familiar voice called out. One of Dick’s friends, Wonder Girl—Donna—was walking towards them, wearing a bright red party dress and smiling widely.  
  
There were a few other heroes here tonight in their civilian disguises but, besides Jason and Donna, they were all Leaguers. Jason knew Ollie and Dinah were around somewhere—he had spotted them in passing earlier—and Jason could see Bruce and Diana talking not too far away. Donna must have come with her.  
  
Donna hugged them both. With Damian, she lifted him up and spun him in a circle, laughing, before letting him go. “You two sure look handsome. I think both of you get taller every time I see you.”  
  
“That’s a, uh… dress— a  _nice_  dress,” said Jason, cringing inwardly at his stumbled words. His stomach knotted in embarrassment and he regretted opening his mouth at all.  
  
Donna beamed. “Thanks! You think so?”  
  
“I like red,” Jason said, shrugging. “It’s a cool colour.”  
  
“No, red is a warm colour,” Damian corrected. Smart-aleck.  
  
“Shut up, Damian,” Jason muttered under his breath, giving Damian a pinch on the arm in annoyance. Damian scowled and pinched him back harder.  
  
“Dick isn’t here tonight?” Donna asked, looking disappointed. “I haven’t seen him around. Don’t tell me he’s still—”  
  
“Still on his trip, yeah,” said Jason. Dick had taken a small squad on Team members on a tricky intel-gathering mission in Hong Kong. “They got delayed.”  
  
“Again? They’ve already been held back a whole week. Are they even going to be home before Christmas? We were supposed to have a party at the Cave.”  
  
“Dunno. I’m not counting on it.”  
  
Damian frowned. “Dick  _promised_.”  
  
“I know,” Jason said, “but they have a lot of work—”  
  
“He promised,” Damian said stubbornly, his pout making it clear that this was not up for discussion—Dick would be home for Christmas no matter what.  
  
Jason rolled his eyes. This babysitting gig was getting tiresome, and fast. Right now he was really wishing they had left the kid at home. Donna gave him a look that was knowing and sympathetic.  
   
“Don’t worry, Jason. I can watch Damian while you go spend time with your friends,” she offered. “There must be a lot of people from your school that you want to see.”  
  
Jason fought to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. This isn’t how he wanted things to go, but he couldn’t say no without sounding like a jerk.  
  
“Yeah, school… Thanks,” he said, reluctantly walking away. Maybe he could find a wall to bang his head against in frustration.  
  
Jason did a slow, sulking lap around the banquet hall, his hands in his pockets. There were other kids from school here, but he wasn’t good friends with any of them. And there was no Artemis, or Barbara, or even Dick. He turned and craned his neck to see Damian and Donna on the other side of the room, jealously watching his little brother talk with the only person here who would be any fun to hang out with.  
  
Bruce wasn’t around, Jason noted as he surveyed his surroundings in boredom. Probably off somewhere charming a socialite or a reporter. He could try sneaking a glass of champagne off one of the trays being carried around. He remembered that Dick got away with it last year, and actually got a little drunk—fondly slinging his arms around peoples’ necks and hanging off them while he talked about how much he liked everybody. But he might have just been faking it so Bruce would send him home from this dull-fest early.  
  
Jason casually snuck up behind one of the roaming servers but just as he reached out, his fingertips grazing one of the glasses of bubbly champagne, he saw Bruce watching him warningly through a gap in the crowd. He flinched, almost knocking the delicate glass off the tray.  
  
The server moved out of reach and Jason scowled at his missed chance. It wasn’t fair. How come Dick and Damian could get away with anything, but he couldn’t?  
  
Bruce gave Jason a pointed look that meant  _wait there_  and started making his way through the crowd. It was slow going, since every few steps he had to greet someone and shake hands and make bland small talk. Jason had no idea how Bruce could put up with it without wanting to scream.  
  
Jason waited by a white-draped buffet tables. He stuffed a fancy cookie in his mouth. It was okay—dry and not nearly as good as Alfred’s baking.   
  
Finally, Bruce was at Jason’s side. “What happened to your tie?” he asked.  
  
Jason grumbled and pulled the wadded-up strip of green fabric out of his pants pocket. Shaking his head, Bruce took it and looped it around the teen’s neck, quickly tying it into a presentable knot while Jason fidgeted restlessly.  
  
“Alfred’s coming to pick up Damian at nine,” said Bruce. “If you’re bored, you can leave with them.”  
  
When Bruce was finished, the tie was tight enough to choke. Jason tugged it looser so that he could actually breathe. “I thought you needed me here in case the party gets crashed.”  
  
“Won’t be necessary.” Bruce tapped his watch discreetly. “I’ve gotten intel that he’s left the country.”  
  
“What? But why would he—”  
  
Bruce fixed Jason’s tie again, making Jason roll his eyes in irritation. “I’m not sure yet,” Bruce said quietly, so only Jason could hear him. “And I don’t know where he’s gone, exactly. But the second he turns up, I’ll know and I’ll be there.”  
  
“Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe he’s finally decided to give up and ditch town for good.” Bruce was still frowning. Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, boss. We’ll catch him. Can’t do anything until you get a lead, right?”  
  
“Right,” Bruce muttered in agreement.  
  
“Then I guess you’ll have to suck it up and have a happy holiday. You don’t get to use the work excuse this year.”  
  
Some boring, balding guy from Bruce’s board of executives walked up to them. Bruce smiled and smoothly transitioned into his shallow public persona. But there was a tenseness in his jaw, unnoticeable to everyone except those who really knew him. He wasn’t going to relax until the Joker was back behind bars. And probably not even then.  


—

  
  
“Do you believe in Santa?” Damian asked seriously. He and Donna were sitting at an empty table she found after he started complaining about being tired.  
  
A few boys had come over to her to dance but she had smiled and refused, saying that she had a date for the night—Damian. Damian had looked pleased at that. Donna didn’t mind spending the party baby-sitting him. She actually enjoyed it a lot. Dick’s little brothers were cute, both of them.  
  
“Me? Um… no, I don’t,” she told Damian. “I don’t actually celebrate Christmas. On Themyscira—”  
  
“So you don’t think Santa is real.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “I knew it. He doesn’t exist.”  
  
Donna paled in horror. What had she done? She had to fix this. If Batman found out she had ruined his son’s Christmas… She could already imagine the bitter, bone-chilling glares he would give her from now on.  
  
Donna thought fast. “Well…  _I_  don’t believe in Santa,” she began, trying to make up some explanation that would convince him and mend the damage she’d done. “But if  _you_  believe in him, that makes him real to you. I believe in other things, and that makes them real to me. The more you believe in something, the more real it is. Get it?”  
  
He looked at her blankly. “No.”  
  
She took his hand in hers and led him towards the refreshment tables. “Let’s get you some dessert.  _Lots_  of dessert.”  
  
They bumped into Jason on the way. “I’ve been looking for you guys,” he said.  
  
“Really? I was just taking Damian to—”  
  
Donna stopped and looked down in surprise when she felt Damian’s hand slip away from hers. He had seen his Auntie Diana nearby and was hurrying towards her, weaving through the maze of adult legs so he could go tug on her skirt and be showered with attention.  
  
That left Jason and Donna alone, just a few steps away from the dance floor. She smiled and tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear, and he fixed his tie nervously, looking down at his feet.  


—

  
Bruce knocked loudly on the bedroom door. The only answer he received from the other side was an annoyed groan.  
  
“Jason, if you want to come with me and Damian to pick out the tree, you need to wake up,” Bruce said, opening the door slightly and peering into the dark room. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”  
  
This was Jason’s third warning and he still showed no intention of getting out of bed. The teen groaned again and turned away from Bruce, pulling the blankets tighter around him. “Too tired. Lemme sleep.”  
  
“You could have gone home early with Damian last night,” Bruce couldn’t help pointing out.  
  
“Shut up, I know. I was having fun.” Jason buried his face in his pillow and whined, “Now go away. It’s winter break—I shouldn’t have to get up before seven.”  
  
Bruce’s mouth twitched into a smile. “It’s eight-thirty.”  
  
“Don’t care.”  
  
Damian was tugging at Bruce’s sleeve impatiently, half dressed up in his warmest winter gear and refusing to wait another minute, so that morning it was just the two of them heading out to the tree lot.  
  
For years, Bruce had cared so little about Christmas and decorations that he hardly noticed when the tree was delivered to the manor. But, because of Damian, the holidays had become a much larger deal and picking a tree had become a special tradition the past couple of years. One of Damian’s favourites, too, because he got to have final say.  
  
As Bruce predicted, the first thing Damian did was seek out the tallest tree available and insist that, since it was the largest and most impressive, it was the only one that could possibly work. Even though one side was rather crooked.  
  
“I’m not sure that one will fit in the family room,” said Bruce. Part of him wanted to agree immediately, just so they could finish here and he could get Damian out of the cold, but that tree would be a nightmare to bring inside. “The dining room, definitely, but—”  
  
“It will fit in the cave.”  
  
Bruce glanced around to make sure that the other customers were paying attention to the trees and not them, then he knelt down and pretended to check that Damian’s boots were tied securely so he could tell his son in a hushed voice, “Damian, we don’t need a tree in the cave.”  
  
“Dick would like it,” Damian said petulantly.  
  
“When he comes back, maybe you two can decorate the dinosaur if you still want to,” said Bruce, still whispering. “But we aren’t going to put up a tree down there.”  
  
Finally, after over an hour spent trudging up and down the rows and comparing trees based on height and colour and spikiness, Damian found one he deemed adequate.  
  
Damian was quiet on the way home once the car had warmed up and his teeth-chattering had subsided. He kept his arms folded and his eyes directed out of the backseat window. He seemed upset, and wouldn’t say why.  
  
At home, Damian made it clear that he refused to enjoy  _anything_  remotely Christmas-related without Dick. He didn’t want to go skating until Dick came back, because Dick was the best at it and was supposed to teach him how to skate backwards. He forced them to change the channel when  _It’s a Wonderful Life_  came on, because it was  _Dick’s_ movie and they couldn’t watch it without him.  
  
He even objected decorating the tree after it was delivered. It took some half-truths to convince him otherwise.  
  
“Dick called and told us to go ahead,” said Bruce as he set down a cardboard box of decorations. “He doesn’t mind.”  
  
Only the first part was a lie. Dick hadn’t called them during his mission, but he would undoubtedly feel guilty if they put everything on hold because of him. That was the same reasoning Alfred and Jason used when it was time to do the Christmas baking and Damian wouldn’t stop arguing.  
  
“Master Richard wouldn’t want us to have a Christmas without cookies,” Alfred told him. “I’m sure he’ll be home in time, and he’ll be happy to be greeted with cookies, won’t he?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “And if we don’t make any, what’re we gonna leave out for Santa on Christmas eve, huh?” he asked, poking Damian in the shoulder. “Did you think of  _that_?”  
  
“But Santa doesn’t even—” Sick of protesting, Damian crossed his arms and let out an irritated huff. “Fine.”  
  
“We can bake another batch with him when he returns,” said Alfred, flipping through the recipe book. “I daresay none of you will complain about having extra.”  
  
Damian cheered up slightly throughout the baking, offering a grudging smile once or twice, if only because Jason snuck him bits of raw cookie dough behind Alfred’s back.  
  
“ _Please_  go light on the icing and sprinkles,” said Alfred later, when the cookies were baked and cooled and ready to decorate. “Moderation is the key. We don’t want a repeat of Halloween, do we?”  
  
“Aw, those cookies turned out fine,” said Jason. They had just been a little tough to eat, smothered with so much hardened orange and black icing that they became hard as rock. But they had looked okay.  
  
“Master Damian lost a tooth trying to bite into one.”  
  
“He was happy about that! ‘Sides, that tooth was already loose.”  
  
They promised Alfred that they would be more prudent in their cookie-decorating this time, and set to work making the blank gingerbread men look like Batmen and Robins, though Damian ordered Jason to turn some of the cookies into Superman, because, “That’s what Dick would do if he was here.”  
  
“Is that a hood?” Jason asked, looking critically at the Robin cookie Damian was working on. “That’s not what my Robin uniform looks like.”  
  
Damian added red laces to the gingerbread Robin’s boots. “It’s what  _mine_  will look like. One day.”  
  
Jason put a dab of green icing on Damian’s nose and laughed. “You bet, squirt. One day.”  


—

  
Damian grew more irritable and morose as the days passed with no clear news of when Dick would return. The sensitive, highly covert nature of the mission meant that the squad’s contact with home base was limited.  
  
As the sun dipped low in the sky on Christmas eve, and it seemed certain that Dick wouldn’t be back in time despite everyone’s assurances that he would, Damian had become convinced that Christmas was ruined and the only thing they could do was put everything away—all the decorations and presents—and try it all over again when Dick was home.  
  
Jason had to forcibly drag Damian away from the tree so that the kid didn’t try to take it down by himself and cause a huge mess. It took a bit of wrestling, but he managed to make Damian settle down on the sofa with a book, and not long after they heard a familiar voice from by the doorway.  
  
“Hey, merry Christmas! Miss us?”  
  
Damian nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of Dick’s voice. He quickly collected himself and replaced his excited smile with a neutral expression.  
  
“- _Tt_ -. We hardly noticed you were gone,” Damian said, but he didn’t try to struggle his way out of Dick’s hug.   
  
Dick had brought Barbara with her, and she greeted the boys with kisses on the cheek. Her father was busy working tonight, so she was spending Christmas eve with them. Dick and Barbara seemed exhausted from their long, drawn-out mission. They were pale and scratched up and had dark bags under their eyes, but they were both smiling.  
  
Dick was wearing a green elf hat, and Alfred, walking in with a tray of hot chocolate and cookies, didn’t miss what he was trying to hide beneath the fluffy white brim.  
  
“Master Richard… are those  _bandages_? My word!”  
  
“Told you he’d notice,” Barbara said, tugging Dick’s hat off by the pompom so they could all see the bandages wrapped around his head. “Our big boy wonder here had his grappling line cut mid-swing and landed on a car. A moving car.”  
  
“It was nothing! I’m fine!” Dick assured them cheerfully. Alfred urged Dick to let him inspect the injury himself but Dick was resisting, the smile never leaving his face. “One minute, Alfie. I want to give the boys their presents early.”   
  
Damian’s eyes gleamed greedily at the mention of presents. Dick pulled out two squashy, messily-wrapped gifts from his overnight bag and tossed them at Jason and Damian. Jason ripped off the wrapping paper and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Another sweater? You got me one last year.” He unfolded it and frowned at the gaudy, blindingly colourful design of… Cows? Moose? He couldn’t tell.   
  
It was painful to look at. Where did Dick find these things?  
  
“You said you lost it,” said Dick.  _Yeah, lost it in the Batcave’s incinerator_ , Jason thought sardonically. “And this one’s even better. It has  _reindeer_  on it. Try it on!”  
  
“I’m not wearing this.”  
  
“C’mon, it’s great!”  
  
“Damian likes  _his_  sweater,” Barbara said. She had quickly pulled it over Damian’s head before he got a good look at the pattern on the front. It was far too long in the arms, his hands lost somewhere in the sleeves and the cuffs hanging near his knees.  
  
Dick whipped out his phone to capture the moment—Damian scowling in his hideously cute sweater knit with a pattern of dancing gingerbread men. Damian leapt at Dick, snarling, as the flash went off and he pummeled his older brother’s stomach with his fists and floppy sleeves.  
  
“Have mercy, Damian!” Dick tried to beg through peals of laughter. “Please—I’m injured!”  


—

  
“Have you thought of a name for the cat yet?” Bruce asked.  
  
Damian shook his head, slowly petting the black-and-white spotted kitten purring contentedly on his lap, careful not to wake it up. He was still in a state of awe. This was not just his favourite Christmas present, but his favourite present of all time. He and the kitten hadn’t been apart since they first met that morning. He was reluctant to even let anyone else pet it. Dinnertime was soon, and Damian seemed ready to fight Alfred for permission to let the cat sit with him at the table.  
  
Choosing a name was a serious matter. The name had to be perfect, one that was powerful and dignified and befitting of such a creature. He needed time to think about it properly.  
  
“You should name it after  _me_ ,” joked Dick, grinning beseechingly and jostling Damian’s shoulder.  
  
“If it makes any difference, the cat’s female,” said Selina. This was the first time Bruce had invited her to spend Christmas with them, and she was perched on the armrest of his chair with a wineglass in her hand.  
  
Damian lifted the kitten up in front of him and peered closely at its yawning face. “How can you tell?”  
  
Bruce’s horrified expression made Selina laugh and choke on her sip of wine. “Just… name the kitten whatever you want, baby bat,” she told Damian hoarsely, between coughs.  
  
Damian stroked the kitten’s ears gently. “You brought the cat here this morning. Not Santa.” He spoke quietly, like he was voicing his thoughts out loud more than he was actually talking to Selina. He almost had the truth of Santa Claus all figured out.  
  
“Yes, I did,” said Selina. “But… It’s like I said before—your dad told Santa that you wanted a kitten, and Santa asked me to help because he knew I found a litter that needed good homes. Santa knows everything.”  
  
“Santa. Doesn’t. Exist,” Damian said huffily, but there still a flicker of lingering uncertainty in his eyes.  
  
“Then where did the gifts come from?” asked Bruce, feigning confusion.  
  
Damian pointed at his father in accusation. “From  _you_!”  
  
“Damian, I—” Bruce began, only to be interrupted by Dick.  
  
“No, I think I know what Damian’s trying to say!” Dick said. “I mean, for Santa to do what he does, he’d have to be rich like Batman, right?” He winked at Jason, who was quick on the uptake.  
  
“Right,” agreed Jason, trying not to laugh. “And really fast, like Superman and the Flash.”  
  
“And magic, like Zatanna or Dr Fate. Get what we’re saying?” Dick asked Damian.  
  
Damian rolled his eyes. “The Justice League can’t be Santa.”  
  
“Why not? They like to do good deeds, Santa does good deeds… Who else could Santa be?”  
  
“This is ridiculous. Even with their powers combined, the Justice League isn’t capable of visiting that many homes in one night and leaving gifts. And— _and!_ —the kind of universal surveillance Santa Claus has goes against their charter of ethics. They can’t be Santa.”  
  
“I guess you’re right,” Dick relented, with a defeated sigh. “Clearly, only Santa can be Santa.”  
  
“Exactly,” Damian said smugly. A moment passed, and his face scrunched up in confusion and then outrage as he realized he’d been tricked. “Wait…”

 


	5. the year he wouldn't apologize

When Dick got to the Manor for the holidays, he didn’t even stop to put down his backpack—the very, very first thing he did was surprise Damian with a tackle-hug and lift him up in his arms.  
  
“Damian!” he yelled happily in his little brother’s ear, squeezing Damian tightly around the middle until he let out muffled grunts of protest. Dick set Damian down with exaggerated effort, like the boy weighed a ton. “ _Oof_. Whoa, you’re getting big. You’re growing like crazy, kiddo. Watch, one day I’ll show up and you’ll be taller than me.”  
  
“Considering my genetics, it’s an inevitability,” Damian said as he smoothed his rumpled shirt and tried to hide how glad he was to see Dick.  
  
“It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.” Dick pulled his brother into another hug, not as roughly as before. “How long has it been? Like a week? Or—”  
  
“Sixteen days,” Damian supplied. He had been keeping count.  
  
Dick shook his head. “No, it can’t be. I came to the Manor last weekend, I’m sure I—” He stopped, guilt washing over his face as he remembered. “Wait, I guess I was only in the cave. You were asleep upstairs. Right. I’m sorry. But we’ll hang out a lot over the next few days, okay? Christmas is family time.”  
  
Dick smiled and Damian smiled back. A small, genuine smile. Because he really did believe that things were going to be okay. With Dick home for the next couple of weeks, everything would take a turn for the better.  
  
It  _was_  better, at least for that one day. The three of them—Damian, Dick, and Bruce—went out that afternoon and found their tree. Dick took Damian skating, and after dinner they watched Christmas movies with Barbara. Drake was watching the movies with them as well, to Damian’s displeasure, but since they were sitting on opposite ends of the large sofa with Dick and Barbara in between, Damian could easily pretend he wasn’t there.  
  
Too soon, it was Damian’s bedtime. He didn’t want to go to sleep yet, but as usual it was pointless arguing with his dad or Alfred. While he was brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas, the others were getting ready for patrol. Their night was just beginning.  
  
“Is Selina coming for Christmas?” Damian asked as his dad tucked him into bed.  
  
It took Bruce a moment to answer. “Not this year.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“It’s… complicated. She’s busy.” Bruce changed the subject. “Alfred said your Christmas list was short. Is there anything else you want as a present?”  
  
“I want to go with you to Gotham on patrol. Just once.”  
  
Bruce didn’t even pause to think about it. “No,” he said firmly. “That’s out of the question.”  
  
Damian squirmed free from the tight blankets and sat up in bed. “But—”  
  
“I’m sorry, son. I can’t.”  
  
“I won’t fight criminals with you,” Damian said, hoping that would make some difference. “I just want to  _see_.”  
  
He wanted to see the city the way they saw it. He wanted to see what was so important that it took his dad away from him every night, and had taken Jason away from him forever.  
  
But Bruce wouldn’t listen to any argument on the subject. “Something could happen. It’s far too dangerous.” He pushed Damian gently to make him lie down and adjusted the blankets around him again. “We’ll talk about it when you’re older.”  
  
Alone in the dark, Damian curled up in his bed and worried, just like he had every patrol night since that time Jason hadn’t come back. He fell asleep worrying that he might not see his dad again the next morning and that there was nothing he could do about it.  
  


—

  
Damian mentioned his ideal Christmas present to Dick over breakfast. Maybe Dick could make it happen.  
  
Dick crunched his sugary cereal. “Yeah, your dad told me about it last night,” he said between spoonfuls.  
  
“And?” Damian prompted.  
  
Dick wouldn’t look Damian in the eyes. “And I think he’s right. Sorry, Damian. You just don’t know what it’s like out there. Things can go wrong at the drop of a hat, and then… We don’t want anything bad to happen to you, that’s all.”  
  
Damian scowled. They kept underestimating him, overprotecting him, treating him like a little kid who couldn’t take care of himself. He wasn’t a baby anymore. His dad was teaching him self-defense and Barbara was teaching him other martial arts when the others weren’t around. Dick used to teach him some acrobatics, just for fun, but not lately. He was too busy.  
  
Damian’s family needed to get used to the idea of him one day fighting beside them, because it was a goal he’d grown up with for as long as he could remember. Gotham was his city, too, and this was his legacy, and he was going to be a part of it soon.  
  
Dick’s cell phone beeped before Damian could argue his case.  
  
“Yes.  _Finally_ ,” Dick muttered as he checked the message. He stood and kissed Damian on the forehead. “I need to head over to Blüdhaven. See you soon.”  
  
“What?” Damian exclaimed in outrage, grabbing Dick’s shirt. “You’re not allowed to leave already.” Dick hadn’t even been here a day.  
  
“Just for a few hours,” Dick assured him as he pried Damian’s fingers apart and stepped away. “Gonna zeta over with Wally and Artemis to show them my new apartment and neighbourhood and probably get some lunch. I’ll be back long before dinner.”  
  
Damian followed him into the hallway. “I want to see Artemis, too.”  
  
“Another time. I’ll make sure to blackmail her into visiting us here,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.   
  
They reached the study, Damian still following closely on Dick’s heels. Dick sighed as Damian took a stubborn stance, his hands on his hips, and glared up at Dick, showing no intention of letting his big brother go so soon.   
  
“You’ll get bored, Dami,” Dick tried to convince him, ruffling his hair affectionately. “And, if you stay, I bet you can get your dad to take you sledding.”   
  
Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’re keeping secrets.”  
  
Something didn’t feel right. Damian had noticed it for a while now, but not as strongly as now. There was something false about Dick’s smile and voice. He was trying too hard to act normal, but it was just that—an  _act_.  
  
“What? No, I’m not,” said Dick, and there was that cheerful falseness again. “I promise, I would never lie to you.”  
  
That itself was a lie. Dick was terrible at lying, at least to Damian.  
  
Dick arranged the hands of the grandfather clock and let the hidden door swing open. A cool draft swept inside from the cave.  
  
“I’m not an idiot,” Damian said to Dick’s back. Dick was hardly listening.  
  
“Of course you’re not.” Dick said over his shoulder. At this point, he was just saying whatever he needed to in order to leave. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”  
  


—

  
Dick was wrong about the sledding. Bruce was just about to leave for a meeting with some international investors of Wayne Enterprises. They had flown halfway across the world to meet with him, and he couldn’t disappoint them.  
  
“We’ll go tomorrow,” he promised, but it was a promise Damian had heard plenty of times before. Bruce told him to spend some time with Tim that afternoon, to go outside and get some fresh air.  
  
So Damian grudgingly followed Drake outside into the snow. It was a sunny day with little wind, and the snow was sticky beneath their boots—perfect for making snowballs.  
  
Five minutes later, they were in the kitchen with Alfred and an open first-aid kit. Alfred glanced over at Damian and shook his head in disappointment as he dabbed the area just under Tim’s eye, where the thin skin was split and starting to swell.  
  
Damian crossed his arms defensively. “How was I supposed to know there was a chunk of ice in the snow?”  
  
“It’s okay, Damian. Accidents happen.” Tim tried to smile, wincing at the pain it caused him. “You… You sure throw hard, though.”  
  
“That’s how snowball fights work,” Damian informed him, speaking slowly like Tim was stupid.  
  
Tim chuckled quietly. “Yeah, I don’t have much experience on the subject. We weren’t supposed to throw snowballs at each other at school… I’m guessing for this exact reason.” He pointed at his swollen eye.  
  
Now that Tim was all fixed up and sporting a fresh band-aid, Alfred repacked the first-aid kit. “If you two boys are looking for something less dangerous to do this afternoon, might I suggest helping me with the holiday baking?”  
  
“That sounds like fun,” said Tim. “I’ve never really helped bake Christmas cookies before.”  
  
“He can’t bake with us, then,” Damian told Alfred insistently. “He’ll ruin everything.”  
  
“We all have to learn somewhere. I’m sure they will turn out excellent,” said Alfred.   
  
Damian let out a loud - _tt_ \- and walked towards the door.   
  
“Master Damian, where are you going?”  
  
“I have better things to do.”  
  
He didn’t want to spend another moment in the same room as Drake. Was he the only one who noticed how wrong all of this was? Drake was nothing but a bad replacement, trying to fit in where he didn’t belong, and the others acted like it was  _fine_.  
  
Damian sat on his bed and tried to read, thinking that studying would distract him from the hollow, twisting feeling in his chest. But no matter how hard he concentrated, it was impossible to ignore the warm scents of sugar and gingerbread wafting through the house, so he put the books away and cuddled his cat until he felt a little less empty.  
  
He ventured sulkily into the quiet kitchen an hour later. Tim was gone, and Alfred was drying dishes by himself. There were fresh, blank gingerbread and sugar cookies waiting on wire cooling racks on the countertop, and Damian saw a tiny bit of raw cookie dough set aside—just for him—even though Alfred always said it was bad for them to eat.  
  
“Master Tim had training exercises to do,” Alfred explained. He squeezed Damian’s shoulder comfortingly. “I still need someone to help me put the finishing touches on the cookies. Perhaps if you’re not too busy…?”  
  


—

  
Damian didn’t know why he said it. It just slipped out. But it was something he had been thinking for a long time, so maybe it was inevitable.  
  
It was halfway through dinner on Christmas eve and Damian was already feeling full. He had taken too many mashed potatoes, but he might not get dessert unless he finished them so he hoped if he moved them around enough with his fork it would fool Alfred.   
  
The conversation around the dinner table was quieter than usual this year without Jason’s loud jokes. Dick and Alfred were talking about how great it was to have the family here, how they didn’t see each other enough because they were so busy, how nice this was.  
  
Damian’s fist tightened around his fork as he listened, and then he turned to Tim and said snidely, “You’re not a part of this family.”  
  
“Damian,” Bruce said sharply, his Batman voice seeping through. Damian had never seen his dad so angry at him before, and it scared him. “Apologize— _now_.”  
  
He scowled right back, even though his heart was hammering and his throat was growing tight. “No. I won’t.”  
  
Tim’s eyes were locked on his plate. He picked at his vegetables with his fork, looking embarrassed, like he wished everyone would just forget about it and move on. Dick and Barbara both had wide eyes and frowns, a mixture of shocked and sad.  
  
“Master Damian—” Alfred began, dismayed.   
  
Damian stood up from his chair and stormed out of the dining room, blinking angry tears from his eyes. He would not cry in front of them. “I won’t! You can’t make me!” he shouted over his shoulder.  
  
He slammed his bedroom door shut as hard as he could, taking vindictive satisfaction in the sharp bang it made against the doorframe. He hoped they heard it from the dining room.   
  
No stuffed animals in his room were safe from his rage. He picked them up and hurled them against the walls as he paced around the room, fuming over the fact that his father had taken Drake’s side. Drake didn’t even belong here.  _Damian_  was the real son.  
  
But obviously they didn’t care about that. They didn’t care about him. If they did, they wouldn’t keep leaving him out, they wouldn’t lie to him, and they wouldn’t always be too busy for him.  
  
They didn’t care. He would have to  _make_  them care.  
  
He sat against the door, hugging his knees to his chest, and thought about running away to his other family. He’d only met his mother a couple of times, but he was sure that she wouldn’t make him apologize, especially not to someone like Drake. He’d run away, and then— and then everyone would realize they were wrong. Then  _they_  would be apologizing to him, like they should.  
  
Yes. That’s exactly what he would do. The plan was already unfolding itself in his mind—it was perfect. They would worry, and they would search, and they would resent Drake for being the cause of all this.  
  
He was wondering whether Dick would cry over his disappearance when he heard footsteps in the hallway, and then someone knocked lightly on the bedroom door, at a point up above his head.  
  
“Damian, please open the door.” It was his father.  
  
“Go away!” he yelled back.  
  
Bruce wasn’t alone. Damian could hear another voice—Dick’s voice—whispering to his dad, though he couldn’t make out the words.   
  
He knew that they were capable of picking the lock on the doorknob in seconds, but they wouldn’t unless there was an emergency. It was a matter of trust.  
  
“Can we just talk to you?” Dick asked. “We’re not angry.”  
  
It was a trick; it had to be. Damian wasn’t falling for it. He wasn’t going to let them lecture him and force him to apologize to Tim.  
  
“I said _go away_!” His voice almost cracked into a sob, but he kept it under control. “Leave me alone!”  
  
There was a hushed discussion on the other side of the door. It lasted about a minute, and then one of them walked away. Dick was the one to leave—Damian could recognize the sound and pattern of his footsteps.   
  
Bruce was still out there, waiting for Damian to open the door while Damian was waiting for him to leave. Neither of them were very patient, but both were equally stubborn. After what seemed like a long time, Bruce let out a quiet, weary sigh, barely audible through the door. And then, finally, he walked away too.  
  
Damian knew that if he wanted to run away, he would have to wait until everyone either went to bed or left for patrol. So he packed his backpack full of a change of clothes and a handheld video game and the batarang Jason had given him a long time ago, that he kept hidden on his bookshelf, and he laid down on his bed and he waited.  
  
He fell half-asleep as the sky darkened to a moonless black outside his window, hugging his lion plushie tightly because he felt bad for throwing it earlier. He snapped awake at a single knock upon his door.  
  
“Hi, Damian.”   
  
 _Drake._  
  
Damian’s eyes narrowed and he reached into the backpack pocket for his batarang, just in case.  
  
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Tim said. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want anyone else in the house to know he was talking to Damian. “You don’t have to apologize, all right? I know everything’s been tough for you lately, so it’s totally understandable. I get why you don’t like me. It’s… it’s okay. But if you ever change your mind and want to hang out, you only need to ask. I’m a pretty good listener. Only if you  _want_  to talk, though. No pressure.” He paused, cleared his throat. The floor creaked as he rocked his weight from foot to foot nervously. “So, um, yeah… You can come out of your room whenever you feel like it, and we’ll just pretend this never happened. Sound good?”  
  
Damian didn’t answer Tim—he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He stayed completely still and breathed as silently as possible through his nose, pretending he wasn’t there, until Tim backed away and left him alone.  
  
Hours passed, enough time for Damian to feel forgotten, verifying his belief that nobody cared.  
  
When he deemed it safe, he carefully opened his door and crept into the hallway. He needed supplies for his journey, like juice boxes and granola bars. He passed through the family room on his way to the kitchen, and stopped when he saw the plate of cookies on the coffee table.  
  
They were supposed to be for Santa, but Damian had missed dessert. So he took one. He sat down on the sofa and nibbled on the cookie. His stomach was heavy with guilt and it didn’t seem to taste as good as usual—probably because Drake baked it.  
  
He could hear someone behind him. He turned in his seat and saw Dick watching him.  
  
“Hey,” Dick said softly, walking around the sofa. Smiling, he shook his head at the sight of the cookie in Damian’s hand. “Aren’t those are supposed to be for Santa?” he teased.  
  
Damian scoffed quietly and took another bite. “Santa doesn’t exist,” he said flatly. He was tired of Dick plying him with that fairy tale nonsense.  
  
Dick’s face fell, and for a second Damian hated himself. He felt like he always said or did the wrong thing, like there was something different about him and he had to fight himself just to be good like the rest of his family.  
  
“You okay?” asked Dick, crouching down in front of Damian and looking at him with concern.  
  
Damian nodded. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Dick smiled warmly. “There, now why couldn’t you say that to Tim?”  
  
“No, I’m not sorry about  _that_. I meant it. I’m sorry that… I ruined Christmas.”  
  
“Damian… You didn’t ruin Christmas. You could never ruin it. The only way Christmas could be ruined is if we’re not all together.”  
  
“But we’re  _not_.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re not,” Dick agreed solemnly, sitting down beside Damian on the sofa and pulling him onto his lap. There were times Damian would fight Dick’s hugs and attempted cuddles, but tonight he nestled against him without complaint. “This Christmas was guaranteed to suck. But don’t take it out on Tim. He’s a nice kid. I’m sure you two would be friends if you just gave him a chance. He’s really smart, like you. You guys could talk about smart-people-things. Have intellectual discussions. Or play video games. Both would be good.”  
  
“I don’t want to be friends with Drake,” Damian muttered stubbornly.  
  
Dick sighed. “ _Tim_. His name is  _Tim_. And if you don’t want to be his friend, maybe you can just tone down the hostility a little bit, instead? I know you think Tim’s replacing Jason, but it’s not like that. None of us are ever going to forget Jason. I swear. Tim’s just trying to carry on Jason’s work as Robin, like Jason did for me. Your dad was in a dark place for a while… He needed someone to keep him from losing himself and doing something he would regret.”  
  
“He had  _me_.”  
  
“I mean, he needed someone out in Gotham with him. He needed a Robin. And you’re still a bit too young for that, little D. I know he was hard to live with after what happened to Jason. And I’m sorry—I’m really sorry. I should’ve been here more, instead of avoiding him. You needed me. From now on I’m going to be around more often, I promise. I’ll even stay a couple nights a week here at the Manor.”  
  
“What about the Team?”  
  
“The Team can deal. I’ve got plenty of squad leaders that can step up more often—Babs and M’gann and Conner. They’ve been nagging that I’ve been working too hard, anyway.” Dick smoothed the messy, spiky bangs away from Damian’s forehead. “You left during dinner. Are you hungry?”  
  
“No.” Damian sniffled and pressed his face against Dick’s chest, mumbling, “I want Jason back.” He sniffled louder, and then hiccuped, and then, before he could stop himself and hold back the sobs, he was crying into the soft fabric of his brother’s sweatshirt.  
  
Dick held him tighter and rubbed up and down his back. “Shh… I know you do, buddy. So do I.”  
  
Damian hadn’t cried in front of anyone after Jason’s death—not even his dad, or Dick, or Alfred. He’d been too ashamed to. And now he couldn’t stop even though he wanted to. He didn’t want Dick to see him acting like a weak little kid.  
  
 But then he felt Dick shake with quiet sobs of his own, and he stopped caring. He let Dick slowly rock him until he couldn’t cry anymore, his eyes dry and red, and until his breaths stopped hitching in his throat. And since Dick didn’t seem to want to let go, Damian dozed off right there, his head resting comfortably against his brother’s shoulder.  
  


—

  
Dick thought he’d only dreamed seeing Bruce standing in the doorway at one point during the night, but when he awoke early on Christmas morning, with Damian still curled around him, there was a blanket draped over the both of them that hadn’t been there before.


End file.
